


reckless like a stormy sea

by ChaosMidge (NotQuiteInsane)



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: (or however you want to read it), Alternate Universe - Vampire, Asexual Character, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Friends With Benefits, Minor Injuries, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Difference, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vampire Bites, Vampire!Cel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27162893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotQuiteInsane/pseuds/ChaosMidge
Summary: They're both comfortable enough with the situation now that Cel doesn't feel the need to remain strictly detached. It ceased to be a simple donation long ago. Zolf is secretly delighted by Cel's penchant for enjoying their meals, provided that they're comfortable in their environment.A routine feed turns into something else...
Relationships: Celiquillithon "Cel" Sidebottom & Zolf Smith, Celiquillithon "Cel" Sidebottom/Zolf Smith
Comments: 15
Kudos: 38





	reckless like a stormy sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissSunFlower94](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSunFlower94/gifts), [SweetwaterBackwoods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetwaterBackwoods/gifts).



> Thank you sfm to When In Rome. Y'all are endlessly supportive. Mike, thanks for the beta, Coign and Dwyn thanks for the extra help. Love y'all a ton.
> 
> Title from Silence of the Darkness by Kamelot.

Cel doesn't need to feed very often. A few times per month is enough to sate their thirst and keep any accidents from happening. And accidents would be... be bad.

Cel had once told Zolf in hushed tones about an accident, their thoughts scattered in the post-feed haze of satisfaction and comfort. The words had been disjointed, laced with a guilt like poison, but calm in the silence of the darkness. Zolf had held their hand to his chest against his steady heartbeat and listened. 

So, when Cel gets that look in their eye and their characteristic pallor grows too sickly to be ignored, Zolf makes a point of knocking on their door or poking his head into their tent and offering up a wrist.

At first, Cel was reticent to feed on a friend—citing the importance of his wellbeing to their peace of mind, the party's reliance on his health, and their desire not to be a burden. Zolf remained resolute, not allowing himself to be waved aside so easily.

In time, they relented and both the pressure to find willing donors and a vast amount of stress vanished. Which is how Zolf finds himself in Cel's room at their current inn, reclining in the corner armchair, eyes closed, Cel's mouth hovering over his wrist.

They're both comfortable enough with the situation now that Cel doesn't feel the need to remain strictly detached. It ceased to be a simple donation long ago. Zolf is secretly delighted by Cel's penchant for enjoying their meals, provided that they're comfortable in their environment.

Cel usually starts with a bite, breaking the thin skin of Zolf's wrist with fangs. But whereas once they would have latched on, taken their meal, and thanked him, they now watch Zolf's blood well up from the puncture marks and run down into his hand before lapping it up with small licks and kisses. There's an anticoagulant in their saliva that keeps the wound open, keeps it leaking crimson for as long as Cel continues to administer their attention.

This time, they're downright playful, looking up through their lashes as their tongue runs across red rivulets, smearing more than consuming. They love to paint Zolf with his own blood, given the time and permission.

Permission is given this time with a possessive curl of his fingers beneath their chin and heavily lidded eyes tracking their every move.

Before long, Cel's unhealthy pallor is fading. Zolf can feel a little bit of the lethargy that comes with blood loss; it's relaxing, causing his head to loll as he watches Cel start up his arm. They leave a trail of bloody kiss marks and pinprick bites, hardly large enough to do much more than ooze. From the way they nip at the skin, glancing up at him as their fangs scrape and graze, he can tell they're buzzed from the blood.

They'd commented, once, on the differences between bloods. There's something _more_ within a cleric, they said while blood-drunk and lazing. Zolf can see a bit of the effects of it now.

Cel likes to watch the blood well up and over and Zolf likes to watch them watch. It's almost a game of how far it can flow before dripping onto the floor. To catch it with tongue or fingers just on the edge of falling. It's mesmerizing to see it, the deep red of something so intrinsic to life flowing from wounds made by someone he trusts, to know that they do this for their own delight and his.

And Zolf's delight is not always secondary, either. He finds himself interested in the proceedings in a way he usually isn't. Blood sharing has led to fooling around before, but only rarely and never in any way that had him invested as anything other than a steady hand or heated, encouraging words.

Perhaps it's the little noises that Cel is making, humming against the skin at the crook of his arm, sucking on unbroken skin and leaving bright red marks that will fade to purple then green then nothing in the coming days. Or perhaps it's the low candlelight, the quiet of the inn, the peace and warmth that surrounds them in this safe place.

Whatever it is, he can feel heat rising in him that has nothing to do with the blood or his state of total dress.

It's at about this point that he realizes Cel is quickly running out of arm. He'd rolled his shirtsleeve up to give them access, but it only goes so far and Cel is making no motions to stop what they were doing. He has the vague thought that he wishes he weren't wearing this shirt, he likes this shirt, when Cel reveals their plan for dealing with it.

With a strength and dexterity he should have expected from a vampire, they tear the shirt sleeve neatly and pull it aside. And then their lips are at his shoulder and surely that's why his breathing becomes shallower, why his heartbeat feels particularly loud in his ears.

Cel gives a breathy little sigh and positions their fangs above the trapezoid. Zolf barely notices his hand come up to hold their head to him, but Cel does and they start a little, pausing to see if he will pull them away. When he doesn't, they bite down.

Fangs in the wrist are one thing, but Zolf is always struck by how different his shoulder or wrist feel. A small noise escapes his throat and he gently scratches his nails against their scalp. He can feel through their mouth and tongue as they hum in satisfaction. He would almost have called it a purr if he didn't know any better, but then again, he's not sure he does.

Zolf grips harder and the purr turns into a moan that sends heat straight into his chest before veering downward.

At some point Cel has migrated to Zolf’s lap. He's pretty sure it was between them biting down and him pulling them up for a messy kiss. He can taste himself on their lips, can feel the alien sensation of fangs on his tongue. His heart skips a beat when Cel lets them nick his lower lip and sucks—a facsimile of a kiss. A dizziness that's nothing to do with the blood loss overwhelms him and he kisses back ferociously, the hand not in their hair going to their hip and pulling him close. He can feel them squirming against him, against his hip, against the unmistakable bulge in his trousers.

Cel pulls away just enough that Zolf can see them grin, fangs bared, eyes shining strangely in the low light of the room. Suddenly it feels like ambiance and not just convenience.

Zolf's hand loosens and Cel dips their head, kissing across his jaw and down to his neck. Their fangs scrape across the skin—the thin skin—of his neck and again, _again_ Zolf's breath hitches. Cel laughs, cool breath raising goosebumps on his throat. They spend the next minute paying attention to his pulse point, licking, kissing, pulling blood to the surface in red-purple pinpricks of bruise.

The word falls from Zolf's breathless lips before he realizes what is happening. "Please."

Zolf feels Cel smile against his skin, the barest whisper of their lips as a reward. Their fangs sink in effortlessly, cradling the artery between them. The most incredible caress. A measure of control that sends shivers through him as they pull out. Then, they begin to drink and he feels them drawing, not just the blood, but at something deep within him. Crimson flows from the wound and Zolf, sturdy though he is, begins to feel light and floaty with it. He is entirely certain that it isn't _only_ the blood loss and his hand at Cel's hip tightens more. They growl and grind their hips harder against his still clothed cock.

"Gods, Cel," he gasps. "H-What are you—"

"Shh," Cel whispers against him, voice thick with blood, with the desperation of thirst and a different kind of hunger. "It's alright. It's alright..."

He lets his head fall back against the back of the chair and closes his eyes. He just... feels.

Cel does the same thing they did with his wrist and lets the blood run down. It's a longer trail this time, drawing red rivulets down the column of his neck. Cel rips the collar of his shirt away, not even bothering to unbutton it, and laps the blood up in small strokes. The shivers that run down his arms make him feel restless, but he can't bring himself to move, not when it might run the risk of dislodging Cel.

When they've satisfied themself with his neck, the shirt comes off entirely. This is the point at which Zolf realizes there's a wet spot on his leg. The hand on Cel's hip moves down around the swell of their ass and he finds the fabric between their legs damp. They shudder at the attention and scoot farther down his torso, circle their tongue around a dusky pink nipple. His hand goes back to their hair and he holds them there. Fangs pierce his skin again and he can feel the blood well up. A quickly cooling trickle has been steadily working its way down from his neck and he's sure it's going to get into his chest hair, but gods he can't bring himself to care. If he turns into a tacky mess, so be it.

As Cel trades between his nipples and he takes care to keep a hand in their hair, his other hand is sliding beneath the waistband of their trousers. They gasp against his stomach when he slides a thick finger into their cunt and circles the tight, wet heat.

"Fuck you, Mr. Smith," they moan and press their face into his skin.

Zolf adds another thick finger and they swear again, the word twisting into a growl around the second syllable. He can't deny the rush of heat he feels. They sound like they're losing control and... gods help him, he wants to know what they look like when that happens.

Not thinking, Zolf tugs Cel back up and kisses them. Hard. The taste of blood is so much stronger now and it feels decadent.

Zolf feels a hand wrap around his cock and his breath shudders out against their lips. He hadn't even noticed them rip away the front of his trousers. It should be some sort of sign that he’s further gone than he thought, but instead all his bloodless brain can think is _fuck_.

He presses his fingers deeper and feels Cel clench around him, feels them growl against his mouth, feels them grind down and all of a sudden he wants to _take_.

Zolf must catch Cel by surprise because when he pulls his fingers free, grabs their hips and flips them around, all they can do is squeak and move with the momentum. It's a powerful rush to have surprised a creature like Cel, to have leveraged his barely comparable strength against them.

"What—"

"Shhh," he says, eyes twinkling up at them with mischief as he sinks lower. "It's alright."

Their trousers hit the floor and Zolf is immediately burying his face at the apex of their thighs, licking and sucking with as much enthusiasm as they had at the scent of blood earlier

Cel keens, high and loud, their hands going to his head immediately. His hair is shorter than theirs, but they still manage to grip the strands and pull. He doesn't have quite the same reaction as them, but the feedback is enough to have him grinning. His fingers press back into them—three this time—and the slick he's eliciting is enough reward in itself. 

He takes a page from their book, turns his head into their thigh and bites. Hard. He's a little surprised that his teeth break skin, but gods he does not regret it. 

Cel moans and clenches around his fingers as they come. At the same time, the sweet, thick taste of blood floods across his tongue. It's an immediate gut punch of sensation and emotion, something not entirely his own. Something that very much feels like the ghost of a hand across his heart and mind.

Cel's hands land on his shoulders and the dwarf feels himself being wrenched to his feet. They seem to loom as they stare down at him, and he remembers his earlier desire to see them lose control. Their expression is feral, intense, and unmistakably hungry.

Zolf has never been thrown around like a ragdoll by someone half his weight. Dwarves are incredibly dense with muscle and their bones must have taken some suggestion from mountains. So, for Cel, eleven stone on a good day, to throw him bodily onto the bed and hold him down is completely new. He feels only a little bit of bounce from the bed before their full weight is on him, pinning his arms above his head as they bury their face back into his neck. They strike and their fangs sink in with deadly precision. 

A sound that Zolf has never made is torn from his throat as euphoria fills him. He's been bitten by Cel dozens of time in his tenure as a willing and convenient meal, but never has this happened. He feels like he's rising on a wave of blood and pleasure. The suction at his throat is doing anything but draining him. Conversely, it's filling him with a desperate need. If Cel's hand wasn’t firmly— _effortlessly_ —pinning his hip, he would be rocking upward, looking for any friction, any touch, anything that would just let him—

Time starts to blur as Cel takes what they want from him. Not that its anything he wouldn't give to them willingly at this point, but to be held down and taken—it's—

Even the smallest brush of bare skin against his cock makes him moan. He knows that they're torturing him on purpose, holding their body as far from his as possible. The only points of contact are their hand on his hip and their shins pinning his own as they bite his neck, his wrist, his chest, his—

Zolf knows that he's bitten off more than he can chew by getting involved with a vampire two feet taller than him. They can reach so many places while he's just pinned, unable to do much more than rut his hips forward into thin air and run his voice ragged moaning.

When Cel's hands finally leave his biceps, he's too strung out to even think about trying to take back control. He's just fine being at their mercy. It's everything he never knew he wanted and nothing he could have ever imagined. Fangs sink into his thigh, bracketing the femoral artery just like they had his carotid and he has no conscious control as his hands slide down the bed, sluggish, and drag their way into Cel's hair. He lacks the wherewithal to grip or pull, and he thinks he can hear them laughing against his skin.

He's sure he must be a vision in red. There's no inch of him that Cel hasn't dragged their bloodstained lips over by now. There's no stretch of skin that hasn't been worshipped by their bloodlust.

The strangled noise that leaves him when Cel takes his cock in hand and guides it into themself is... he couldn't have reproduced it if he tried. Every nerve ending feels like it's on fire, firing on all cylinders, overloading him with sensation. They laugh and it's the most beautiful thing that he's ever heard.

Cel leans forward and Zolf sees them cut their lips on their own fangs before fitting their mouths together in a sloppy kiss. The rich iron taste of blood and want floods his mouth and he kisses back desperately.

Something about the kiss is reinvigorating and Zolf's hands find their way to Cel's hips. Cel rides him like this is the hundredth time, like they know exactly how to get what they want from him, and Zolf wants to do anything but keep it from them. He moves with them, and gasps at the drag and grind and glorious heat of it. The overwhelming feeling of it all hasn't let up for even a moment. Something is building, wounding the sky with its enormity and when Cel throws their head back with a wild growl and clenches down, he knows he's close. All it will take is…

Zolf's voice is hoarse when he opens his mouth and all that comes out is a moan. He tries to gather what little is left of his thoughts and…

"Cel, please," he begs. "Take it. Bite me, please, Cel." The last is a sob and he's shaking with need, with want, with sensation.

Cel laughs again. The most beautiful sound he's ever heard.

Then they bend down, back arching extraordinarily— _inhumanly_ —sink their fangs into his shoulder, and it's all over. Zolf comes hard, sunk deep inside their slick, wet heat.

Later, Cel carries him to the bathtub and runs a soft cloth over their limbs. The blood that hasn't already flaked off comes away in red-brown streaks, staining the water and releasing its heady scent into the air. They pay special attention to every single one of the dozens of bite marks across Zolf's body. He turns his head to look at them, eyelids fluttering, so heavy, so tired. They catch his mouth in a gentle kiss and whisper quiet words of praise and thanks. Their hand caresses his face and if he falls asleep there in the bath, no one else needs to know. If Cel curls around him in the bed, freshly stripped and remade, then it's not possessiveness. If they sleep all day and wake the next evening to small, careful kisses along their neck, then that's... that's alright.


End file.
